Goodnight, John
by truemizzie
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has long since retired, and the Watsons come visit him at his country home. Sherlock has insisted that John spend the night sipping tea with him, and he has just informed his best friend that he is going to die. One-shot.


Author's Notes: This story exists within the "Anthony" Universe, but you do not have to read that story in order to understand this one. I have explained the ages of John's family in the first paragraph so you know where this sits within that world, but I've tried to write this as a stand-alone piece. I also tried to write it in such a manner that it could not only fit into the modern BBC Universe, but also feel somewhat natural within the Cannon, upon which it is based. I always found it so funny that Sherlock turned to beekeeping in his old age, and it occurred to me that, eventually, Sherlock Holmes died in the Cannon. It is not shown, though, and I wondered whether it would be John or Sherlock to go first, and whether they would be together when it happened.

Hence the birth of this fic. Enjoy!

As a tiny primer, for those who have not read Anthony: John and Mary are married, and have one son, Anthony. Anthony married Chris Donovan (Sally Donovan's son) and they adopted Sally Rose together. I have a lot planned for Sally Rose and Sherlock, but those are ficlets for another day...

* * *

**Goodnight, John**

It is the beginning of May when Sherlock Holmes invites John and the Watsons and Donovans to his home in the country for a week. Little Sally Rose is all grown up at twenty-one years old now, and this will be her last big family vacation before her wedding day to a young man Sherlock and John would never dare to admit is good enough for her. Anthony and Chris – the Donovans - are finally nearing their fifties, and John has surpassed eighty, surprising himself more than anyone. Mary is as alive as she ever was. She'll outlive them all.

They spend the week exploring Sherlock's grounds, the ones he inherited from Mycroft two decades earlier, but only moved into in recent years. He has turned them into a beekeeping ground, to the utter shock of the Watson family. John was the only one unsurprised by it: Sherlock has always been eclectic, why would he discontinue that in his old age?

"My dear Watson...we are old, now. Did you know?" It is nearly midnight, and everyone else is in bed. Sherlock is leaning back comfortably on the couch, legs crossed. He and John have been sitting in his top floor study, so as not to disturb the sleeping Watsons and Donovans below them. Sherlock has insisted that John spend the night sipping tea with him, and he has just informed his best friend that he is going to die.

"You're not that old," John replies, the age having taken a toll on his voice, making him sound gruffer than he's intended. "What are you saying? You mean here – now?"

"I expect not." Sherlock takes in a sip of tea. It's not like Mrs. Hudson used to make. It never has been. "Unless you are planning to kill me."

"That depends, have you pissed me off today?"

"You do recall the swarm incident? Or is your memory going in your old age?" Right, the bees. Sherlock made John reach a hand inside the hive – he can't remember why he had done it, only that it caused utter mayhem. Thankfully, he was well-protected by his beekeeping garb, but the race inside the house had tuckered him out significantly.

"Like I said: we're not _that_ old."

"You said _I _am not that old. You, however, have always had seniority over me."

"There is so much truth in that statement."

"I had intended there to be."

"Sherlock," John says in the most chiding manner he can manage. "What do you mean, you're going to die?" John is glad he is the only one present to hear this, as Sherlock sounds so utterly mad, but the former doctor soon realizes that this has been Sherlock's plan all along.

"I mean, John, that after I fall asleep tonight, I will not be waking again."

"How could you possibly know that?" Sherlock shrugs. John makes his own deductions. "Have you taken something?" he accuses.

"Of course not, no." Sherlock hands are steady as he drinks more tea. He is relaxed, a conduct he has finally perfected in the last four or five years. It still astonishes John that he is the wired one in their relationship, now. "There will come a time for you, as well, when you will feel your life coming to an end, and greet Death as an old friend."

"But death is not your friend," John scolds. "I'm your friend."

"Who is to say Death is not another companion I've had in my lifetime? Could you not believe, perhaps, that it should be Mycroft arriving to accompany me into the next world?"

Of all the things Sherlock Holmes has said in their time together, this will always be among those John finds most incredible. "I didn't think you subscribed to such a belief system."

"What, you mean religion? No, dear me – I should never be so organized. Faith, however, is not outside my ability."

"You think there's something else, then? An afterlife?"

"Of some variety. It's only logical."

John likes to believe his friend. It is a comfort to know that Sherlock Holmes, the most observant man in the world, thinks that a life after death is a logical assumption. It is another of the many criteria that separates him from all others in the Universe.

"Well, for my sake, I hope that Mycroft does show up tonight to swat you on the nose and tell you you've got another half-lifetime to saunter about here on Earth."

"For your sake, I wish that was the case. Sadly, John...it is not."

This is the first time John believes him. He tries not to, but then... "Of course, with that attitude. Yes, you will surely kill yourself."

"My attitude has no power over this. If it were up to me, I would not die. But this moment has been approaching for some time."

"That's why you've invited us here?"

"I am a selfish man," Sherlock admits. "I did not want to die alone."

"You never will," John assures him. "It just won't be this night."

Sherlock smiles, but it is in such a sad way that a younger John might have thrown his mug at him.

"You'll stay with me tonight?" Sherlock requests.

How could John possibly refuse him? "Of course. Why don't we invite the others? This should be a family affair!"

"No." Sherlock is so firm, and so certain, that John's heart skips a beat. He suspects that he is the one who will have a heart attack and die this evening. "They will be upset, certainly, but they will not be so affected as you, I fear."

"That is, of course, if you do pass on tonight."

Sherlock does not respond to this, but presses his lips together. He appears disappointed, as though he has just realized how difficult it will be to convince John of his dying. John tries to change the subject:

"You've done a wonderful job with the bees, as far as I can tell. The honey you gave us yesterday was divine."

"Yes, it tastes better when you've done the work yourself. I used to tell Mycroft that very same thing."

"Well, you were always more hands-on than he was."

Sherlock is unwilling to continue this banter. He returns to business. "John, I hope you remain unoffended by this, but I have re-worked my will. I have decided to leave nearly everything to Sally and the boys, apart from some money that I'm leaving to Molly's children. I trust your retirement fund has kept you well-covered?"

John surpresses his sigh. It is not that he is jealous: on the contrary, he and Mary want for nothing, and it is such a blessing that Sherlock has always looked after his family. He hopes, however, that they will not receive their inheritance for many years to come. "Sherlock, you can't know when you'll die. This is...ridiculous."

"Is it?" Sherlock has always been thin, but he is absolutely dwarfed by the old-fashioned couch he sits on before John. Is he thinner than John remembers?

"Are you sick?" he asks, and regrets it instantly, because he already knows the answer.

He's known for some time.

He has seen, but he has not observed.

"My God...my friend, you-"

"-That is of no circumstance."

"You have not been undergoing treatment?"

"No. I preferred to have a quiet death. Peaceful. And relatively painless."

"You've been in pain?"

"On occasion."

John winces. A drop of tea spills over his mug and onto his hand, and he winces again. Sherlock laughs at him. "I see no humour in this," John scolds, setting down his mug and wiping his hand on his pant leg. "You should be seeing a doctor."

"I was under the impression that I was seeing my doctor right now."

John frowns, knotting his eyebrows together as closely as possible. He tries to look reprimanding, but Sherlock raises a brow at him, and he can't maintain it. He purses his lips and exhales, searching for words. "And you really think tonight is the night?"

"I am certain of it."

John's forehead is already covered in wrinkles, but he makes it more so. "You are right, then. I will be affected."

"You believe me?"

John shrugs. "If this is goodbye, then I'd prefer to make it amicable."

John is a little put-off when Sherlock smiles, but understands why he has done it. "Thank you."

"Thank me in the morning." John gets an idea. "What if you stayed awake until then? Then perhaps you will surpass this?"

"It would only come again the next time I lost consciousness."

"We could take you to a hospital."

"John." Sherlock sounds disappointed. John wants to take back his words. "I beg of you, do not make me fight this. It would only cause me a great deal of torment. I am prepared to go, let me do so with some dignity."

"How can you possibly be ready to go? Aren't there more mysteries to solve?"

"We haven't had a case in years."

"I don't mean cases. I mean...life. So many questions, so many more deductions to make!"

"I feel as though I have solved all I need to know."

"But...haven't you missed anything? There must be something more you must accomplish."

Sherlock finishes his tea, and places the cup down on the table before him. "There. The caffeine will wear off before too long, and then I shall fall asleep. I am weary of how much time we have left," he admits, and John tries not to roll his eyes.

"You could always have another cup."

"And die of a caffeine-induced heart attack? Certainly, John, _that _is something we are both too old for."

John allows himself a tiny chuckle. "True enough."

Sherlock draws his legs onto the couch, leaning against the arm of the seat and stretching his feet towards the other side. He looks like he did when they were young, living at Baker Street. His gaze never falters, he is always watching John. Deducing him, perhaps? Still, after all this time? He speaks: "You were informing me about all these tasks I've yet to accomplish. Tell me, what are the necessary criteria of a life fully lived?"

It takes John a moment to ponder the question, but he comes up with a few major moments. "Well, for one, there's...a career. Well, fulfilment within one, anyway."

"Check." Sherlock draws an imaginary check mark in front of himself. This time, John does roll his eyes.

"Then, there's...well, to be frank, there's children."

Sherlock scoffs. "First of all, if I did suddenly want children of my own, I would be far too old to conceive them. Second, I have had children. I've just...borrowed them."

John accepts this answer. "I would consider it more of a timeshare situation, at least with Anthony. Sally, on the other hand...why, Sherlock – Sally will be devastated!" It is the first time John realizes this. Sally Donovan is still alive, and Mary and John are both healthy. In some way, Sherlock will be the first Grandparent – well, Grand-Godfather – that the young woman will ever lose. And Sherlock was so much more than just another Grandparental figure – he was her teacher. Her confidant. Her...why, he was to her exactly what he was to Anthony: the person upon whom she could rely indefinitely.

Sherlock doesn't seem so bothered. "She has always known this day would come eventually. She is a strong girl. Yes, it will be heart wrenching, but she will go on. You must support her."

"Of course I will. She's as much my Granddaughter as she is yours."

"More so, if we are speaking technically."

"Blood-wise, she's connected to neither of us. As far as I'm concerned, we've pulled equal weight in her upbringing."

"John, you do flatter me." Sherlock looks away for a split-second, and John knows he is thinking about little Sally.

"You'll miss the wedding," John says trivially.

"I'll do my best to attend, at least in some manner."

"That's just what we need, a ghost in all the photos."

"It'll add an air of...mystery to the proceedings!"

"You would do that alive, as well." They both pause, thinking of Sally and her future husband. John thinks of another life event. "There's...marriage."

Sherlock laughs openly now. "And what would you call this?" he asks, pointing to the space between the two of them. John shakes his head, but he is grinning. Sherlock continues: "John, I was not, as you know, the marrying sort. But I have spent my life unhindered by loneliness, spare a few times when one of us was needlessly absent from the world of the other." John recalls Sherlock's years spent protecting him, the ones during which he believed his friend to be dead as well as the ones where he was out being the vigilante Godfather John would come to know him as. He recalls his own absence: his time in a coma, a time during which he knows Sherlock nearly fell apart from stress. But, apart from those times - and a few stupid, silly fights between the two of them - they were always together. Sherlock breaks his train of thought:

"I am thrilled by your marriage, though. It is exactly right for you, and what a perfect choice you made."

"Who, you or Mary?"

Sherlock smirks. "I hesitate to tell you that, despite you remaining the greatest friend I have ever acquired, Mary has always come remarkably close to matching you."

"Likewise." John thinks of his wife, sleeping unknowingly beneath them. "Would you like me to wake her?"

"Best not. I want this to be just us." Sherlock looks sad again. "But...do give her my love, won't you?" John thinks it might be the first time Sherlock has ever said the word in reference to his wife, though he's always known it to be true. Mary has always been there for Sherlock, sometimes in ways that John couldn't be. There were things Sherlock could tell Mary that he refused to say to John, mainly regarding his drug addiction, but John knows that Sherlock was as much there for Mary as she was for him. Sherlock helped Mary through some of the most challenging times in her life, and he was always the first to recognize her troubles and disappointments, caring for her so tenderly that John might have thought his friend had become her sibling. Yes, Sherlock loves Mary. It is not a great declaration. It is simply the truth.

"She already knows."

"Yes, but...tell her anyway."

John nods. "She'd tell you the same."

"She does. Often." Sherlock smiles as he thinks of Mary. John is so glad for the friendship the two have shared. "Any more life-affirming events I must cover before I go?"

John feels forward. Bratty, even. He smirks as he answers: "Sex."

Sherlock meets the word with such an exasperated groan that John wants to burst out laughing right there. But then Sherlock gives him a look that, for the first time in a while, surprises him.

"Wait...you mean...?" It's so obvious. "Irene Adler?"

"It should bring you great comfort to know that I am not dying having been entirely unfamiliar with the female form."

"Is it wrong that...yes, that does bring me some comfort. You know, as your friend."

"I am overcome with emotion," Sherlock replies dramatically. "And you? Don't tell me that you are to die a virgin."

"Sherlock, I have a child!"

"Then I think, John, that you've covered enough for both of us."

"I don't know why you never told me."

"What was I meant to do, come into your home and announce it?"

"True enough. Mary would have found it shocking."

"She already knew," Sherlock informs him, and John feels mildly offended. "The Woman let her know all the details, I'm to understand."

"And yet you never even told me when it happened?"

"You act as though it only occurred once, John." John gapes in his offence. Sherlock looks far too amused. "You'll have to ask your wife, I do not feel like...divulging details."

John finds himself snorting, he is so amused. Sherlock yawns.

"Don't fall asleep just yet! Unless you're eager to go and see Irene again, in which case...well, by all means..." John has attempted humour, but he realizes that encouraging Sherlock to die may not be in his own best interests.

"Are there any more criteria on this bucket list you have decided to create for me?" Sherlock asks, still looking far too tired.

"I...can't think of any that you haven't already conquered."

"Good, because I have a few last minute...requests. Would you be so kind?"

"Are they the obvious ones?"

"Indeed."

"Then I would be honoured." John feels as though he should take down a list on paper, but he soon finds that it won't be necessary.

"There aren't many of my regards that need to be sent," Sherlock says, his eyes still set upon John, memorizing him. "Simply, the children. Anthony will do well with the news of my death: he understands it as comfortably as I do, and he has his own family to keep him going. Chris, too, has stolen my heart, though, and obviously Sally Rose is as much my pride and joy as she is yours." John is overwhelmed by the sentiment in Sherlock's words. It is so unhindered, so unrestrained by his former belief that he was a sociopath. John wonders if Sherlock still believes that. "Then, I suppose it is pertinent to send my regards to Sally Senior. More pressing, though, will be Molly's response to my death. She won't take it well."

"No, she won't." When Sherlock had been believed dead for three years, Molly was the only one aware that he was, in fact, alive. She has never lost Sherlock before. It will hit her quite significantly. John promises himself that he will look after her, and he knows that she and Mary will take comfort in one another.

"I trust you will not speak of this night too candidly to anyone apart from Mary. I fear she'll be the only one to understand why you haven't rushed me to the Emergency Room."

"You don't mind me telling her?"

"Not a bit." Sherlock hangs his head. "I have, in my old coat pocket, left a note for her. See to it that she receives my words for her."

John swallows. "I will. I promise." Sherlock lifts his head. "Have you left notes to anyone else? Anthony?"

"I haven't. It would seem too...contrived. As I said: Mary will understand. The others will not."

"You're doing it for my sake, then?"

"Not at all, John." Sherlock's eyes waver. "I'm doing it for mine."

"Anyone else?" John asks, and Sherlock appears to wrack his brain for anyone he might have missed. He shakes his head, and John has a few requests of his own. "With all of these goodbyes, I'd like to ask you a favour, as well."

"Anything."

John winces at his friend's response. So willing. So...trustworthy. "You must deliver a few hellos from me." Sherlock looks pleased by this request. John begins his list: "First, if it _is_ Mycroft that collects you tonight, I want you to thank him for me. Thank him for the money he left to the kids, and for the protection he always granted us. It was never unappreciated."

"Of course."

"Did you know: once, when you were injured, Mycroft went so far as to regard me among the two of you as brothers?"

"Yes, he often referred to you as 'The Good Seed.'"

John is a little surprised. He never thought Sherlock knew.

"He was incorrect, though."

John wants to be offended, but he's too bewildered. "You disagree?"

"To Mycroft...well, yes. The relationship you shared, in the end, wasn't far different from the one I shared with him. But to me...you are so much more than just blood to me, John."

John wants to cry. He holds it in. Sherlock sees, but he doesn't point it out. "Likewise," John whispers.

Sherlock nods, a knowing smile upon his lips. "Any more greetings?"

"A few."

"You should move this along, then. Time is of the essence."

John returns to his list. "Ask Mrs. Hudson how she brewed her tea."

"I may not be able to deliver my findings."

"Damn...well, then, when it's my time, make sure to greet me with a cuppa."

"That had better be a very long time from now." Sherlock looks stern, then softens. He looks disappointed. "It grieves me to consider how long I'll have to wait before you can come and join me."

"It couldn't be that long."

"It must be. I would...prefer it to be. Besides, any amount of time will seem insignificant in comparison to the eternity I plan to spend with you."

"How romantic."

Sherlock is caught off guard. He chuckles. "Yes. I'm tirelessly sentimental at the moment, aren't I?"

"I don't mind, so long as you remain tireless." John puts a hand over his mug. His tea has become cold. He is starting to feel weary, and doesn't want to fall asleep. He returns to his requests: "Next, I suppose, must be Miss Adler."

"What must I say to her?"

"I think a simple greeting should suffice. I expect she's been keeping an eye on us, with no blog left to be read."

"Do you think one is able to do so, from the next world?"

"You tell me. I've never been one to believe in any afterlife - not since Sunday school."

"You don't think there's anything that follows this, then?"

"I can only hope."

Sherlock is frowning. John feels mildly guilty. Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything. "I believe, Sherlock, that if anyone is able to live forever, it's you. And anyway, you've always been a mind and soul above all other _'transport'_ – lack of physical form shouldn't have any burden on your existence."

Sherlock seems pleased by this, and perhaps comforted. John feels better.

"I shall deliver your regards to The Woman."

"Sherlock, may I ask you a question?"

"I would do so quickly."

John gulps. "Would you say that, perhaps, you loved Irene Adler?"

"You know I've never felt that emotion so distinctly-"

"-Oh, Christ! Not this again!"

Sherlock is taken aback by the interruption. He does not, however, seem faltered by it. "I was not about to say I've never felt love, John, only that I've always felt it differently from most. I'm no longer burdened by the assumption that I am a sociopath. In fact, I've come to realize in the past few years that, perhaps, I am as far from that designation as a man could possibly be." John has no response. His mouth is hanging open. "So, to answer your question: I did not love Irene Adler. It was more than that: I could not wholly exist without her."

John wonders if he has ever said anything quite so profound to his own wife. He makes a point of doing so in the very near future.

Sherlock continues. "Is there anyone else?"

"Just one. Greg."

"Who?" Sherlock asks, but he's joking.

John smirks. "Tell him he retired too soon, and that London is falling apart without him. Just to see if he gives a damn."

"I doubt he will. I think he spent enough time_ during_ his life holding the city together."

"_'Leave it to someone else!'_, he'll say."

"_'That's no longer within my jurisdiction!'_"

John is chuckling, but his good-humour is quickly followed by gloominess. "Who will I stay up drinking with, after you've gone? I'll be out of mates."

"You'll still have Mary."

"Yes – that's different. I mean blokes. My best blokes."

Sherlock's lips have fallen. "As I said, John, you will be hit quite ruthlessly by this." Sherlock knows the significance of John's recent losses. His close friend, Lestrade, taken only months before this night. And now the best friend he has ever had.

"I do hope you'll awaken tomorrow, just so I can laugh at your mistake," John tells him.

"And let me live another few months, forced into a hospital, pained by treatments I do not want to undergo?"

John has forgotten Sherlock's sickness already. Really, how does any man have the right to look so healthy, but be so sick? "You're right. When you put it that way...I am only being selfish."

"It is I who is being selfish. Telling you this...it is placing a burden upon you."

"I prefer it this way. At least this time I get to say goodbye."

"Do you say that in reference to Lestrade?"

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock does know, of course. He knows of a three-year absence, and a painful phone call. All without explanation. All without justice. "I do hope these circumstances have a kinder affect on you than...than that did."

"But this time, I suppose, you won't be miraculously returning. The house will feel so empty without you coming to visit it."

"I hardly visit any more as it is."

"I know, but...I always like knowing you're still out there, kicking about somewhere. Even if it is with a bunch of bees." Sherlock scoffs, but he is smiling. "Truly, Sherlock, why the bees?"

"They are very interesting creatures. Scientific marvels, truly."

"I'll take your word for it. Why, though, did you realize your obsession with them so late in life?"

"I suppose some of the greatest joys in life just...sneak up on you."

John doesn't need time to ponder this. He understands completely. "I reckon you're right."

Sherlock pulls his knees towards him and hugs them. He looks as exhausted as John feels, but both men are neglecting their bodies' wishes for rest. They are revelling in their time together, taking in as much of one another as they can manage before their inevitable goodbye. John breaks the silence with a sad thought.

"Why didn't you ever tell me you were in pain?"

"I did not want to worry you. Moreover, I did not want you to request my being treated."

"It would have only been that – a request."

"Yes. But I could never have refused you."

"You're refusing me now."

"You haven't asked."

John wants to ask. He wants to beg, even. But he doesn't. For Sherlock's sake, he never will.

"I am so grateful for your acceptance, John." Sherlock blinks, and his eyes remain closed far longer than they should. John is about to yell at him, but Sherlock regains his alertness. "Swear to me that you will, at least, _attempt _to remain positive after I've gone?"

"I will be lonesome."

"You will learn to rely more heavily on the rest of your family. That is, if you allow yourself to do so. Promise me this, please."

"I swear it." John swears, just as Sherlock always has. It just seems more...definite.

Sherlock is faltering now, but he forces himself to keep speaking. "Tell me: of all our adventures together, have you ever chosen a favourite?"

John thinks back on years and years of cases, but of all his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, one seems to stand out among them all. "I recall one particularly enthralling case regarding a group of young men and this obsession they had with some comic books of their own creation. 'The Geek Interpreter', I think I entitled it."

Sherlock is appalled. "But that was so early in our time together!"

"Yes. I always found your intrigue with their pursuit so bizarre. So eclectic. So...you. I think it may have been among the first times I truly started to feel like I knew you. Better than anyone else, I mean. And I was determined for the world to see what I got to."

"Really, John? Of all the incredible, fanciful journeys we traversed together, you pick one so insignificant as that?"

"It _was_ insignificant. That's what made it so profound. And anyway, when you think about it: it was _all _just one great adventure, wasn't it?"

Sherlock remains unimpressed, but soon his disapproval wavers, and he nods. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right."

"And I do not only mean the cases. I mean...all of it. It was all just a big mystery, a series of clues we had to solve together one day at a time."

"Ah, yes. The greatest mystery of them all: life. And now," Sherlock adds, seemingly unfazed, "Death."

John has that urge again, the one where he takes a mug to his friend's cheekbones. But Sherlock is in motion now, gracefully swinging his feet around to his other side and leaving an empty space next to him. He takes a long breath and stretches out his arms. He looks at John, and the older man knows from the intensity of his observance that this is it: his last gaze. His last chance to deduce John from a distance. Sherlock opens a palm at him.

"My dear friend, would you come and sit with me as I fall asleep?" Sherlock asks, and John scoffs.

"I love how you say that as though I have some choice in the matter."

"John, you have always had a choice."

"_My _dear friend...of all the cases we've been on together, let me assure you: that is not - and has never been - among them."

Sherlock, at this moment, looks more overcome with pride than John has ever seen him. The older but shorter man stands and crosses the threshold between his seat and the couch, and he does not hesitate to sling an arm around Sherlock's shoulders as he sits. It is more familiar a touch than either of them are used to, each more accustomed to a verbal relationship rather than a particularly physical one, but Sherlock responds to it with absolute comfort, leaning his head onto John's shoulder.

"I fear I won't be able to stay awake much longer," he says, and yawns as though to punctuate his statement.

"Just a few more minutes," John begs.

Sherlock chuckles. "Funny, that's normally what one says upon waking up."

"Since when have I ever been normal?"

"Quite right." Neither speaks for at least a minute, and just as John is worried that Sherlock has dozed off, he hears his friend's voice. "You have always been...extraordinary."

Then John thinks he's about to cry, but he can't. He shouldn't. He won't.

He does, a little.

"I do not wish to make you sad."

"Then don't go."

"I do wish I didn't have to," Sherlock says, and John can hear a breaking in his voice, one that only he knows the man intrinsically enough to pick up on.

"I could call the hospital."

"You will not. I want my last moments to be...peaceful."

And then John cries without concealment, but he has never been much for wailing, so the tears are silent. When he feels a wet stain against his chest, it takes him a moment to realize the tear had dropped from Sherlock's eye, and not his own.

"I know this is early," Sherlock says, and John wipes his face, embarrassed. "Too early. But we won't be apart long."

"Swear you'll haunt me, or I'll make a dead man out of you." John doesn't immediately recognize the humour behind his statement, but when he does, he starts to laugh. Sherlock joins him, and before long both men are in a fit of hysterics. Slowly, their laughter falls. Sherlock gives John a long look before resting his head back on his friend's shoulder. One final look. He sighs.

"This is it, John," he whispers, and the retired doctor grips his shoulder tightly, supporting him against his torso. He must remain solid. Sherlock's voice is a little stronger now. "My dear Watson: could I ever describe to you how much I've enjoyed being your friend?"

"It could not possibly come close, Sherlock, to how privileged I've been as yours."

He can hear Sherlock's smile before he looks down to see it. Sherlock face relaxes, and his breathing slows until John is certain he's asleep. But of course, he has always been prone to making wrong deductions, for Sherlock Holmes' last words are:

"Goodnight, John."

And John leans his forehead into Sherlock's hair, whispering, "Sweet dreams, dear friend."

It is impossible to tell which one falls asleep first, but soon they are both far away from the world of the waking. John dreams of long past adventures and recent amusements, his head rested comfortably atop his companion's. He is never to know for sure, but perhaps, if his subconscious self listens carefully enough, he will be able to hear the sound of Sherlock's voice echoing through his visions, and the old yet familiar voice that responds to it...

_"Took you long enough."_

_ "On the contrary, you are greeting me far too early."_

_ "True enough. Then, as much as it pleases me to see you now, perhaps you'll allow me some more time?"_

_ "If only I had such power."_

_ "Well, no point in dragging this along, then. Shall we move on?"_

_ "To the next adventure. I trust you'll behave?"_

_ "For a while."_

_ "And when it's time for him to join you? Sherlock, I have spent a great deal of time improving upon the afterlife: keeping it safe, organized. Promise me the two of you won't make a wreck out of it!"_

_ "Boring."_


End file.
